


Forgiven

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blasphemy, Confessional, Consent Issues, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has Two Penises (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Dry Humping, Eventual Romance, Face-Fucking, Guilt, Happy Ending, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), I'm going to give the monsterfuckers everything they want, Improper Use of a Rosary, Incubus/Succubus Crowley (Good Omens), Intercrural Sex, Internal Conflict, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Religion Kink, Religious Guilt, Self-Edging, Self-Hatred, Shameless Smut, Smut, Tails, Teratophilia, Thighs, all consensual mind you, but quite far from consent role models, incubus au, it/its pronouns for Crowley, snake inspired anatomy, take me to snurch, this might be the most catholic thing I’ve ever written, very horny i've got no excuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25767916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: It came again, the vile, foul creature. It snuck in his bed in the dead of the night, when he was completely alone and helpless.Aziraphale had carefully picked out his best nightgown, the one with ruffles on the chest and lace on the bottom. He’d briefly said his goodbyes to it, in case the devil decided to rip it to shreds.He’d whispered his prayers, stiff knees on the hard stone floor, begging for his soul to be saved. And then, he’d carefully brushed his hair and lain in bed, heart thumping in his chest.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 161
Kudos: 615





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses. All I can tell you is that I saw [this artwork](https://twitter.com/Aiwasensei/status/1288149040572567553) by Aiwa and went a little bananas, and then my dearest [Sol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solimette) had to go and say, "but what if Aziraphale was a priest?", and I was _doomed_. 
> 
> I'm very thankful to Aiwa for being so gracious and letting me run away with it.

He was a pious soul. Or—he liked to think he was. He said his prayers morning and night and abstained from any earthly pleasure. 

Where anyone could see, at least.

But whenever he strayed from the path he bitterly repented, and that had to count for something.

When he hid in his room at night with a bag of pastries and let the cream drip down his chin as he bit into it, then scooped it up with a finger and licked it off, the vanilla-sweet taste exploding on his tongue - he confessed.

When he used his modest salary to buy himself silk and satin gowns he’d never wear outside, but loved to keep in his chiffonier. When he ran his hand over them, to luxuriate in the opulent feeling under his fingers. When he wore them for a night and then hand-washed them with the finest lavender soap and hung them to dry over a chair, his dirty little secret - he confessed.

When he pleasured himself, face down in the bed, choking himself into the pillow wet with his own spit so no one would hear. When he teased his cock until it physically hurt, not allowing himself to finish, not until he was so sensitive his eyes stung with tears and only then, only then, would he let himself go - he confessed.

The next day, he’d always go down on his knees and confess his sins.

But some secrets were harder to disclose than others. Not for lack of remorse - rather, he didn’t know how to begin explaining them.

* * *

It came again, the vile, foul creature. It snuck in his bed in the dead of the night, when he was completely alone and helpless. Aziraphale had carefully picked out his best nightgown, the one with ruffles on the chest and lace on the bottom. He’d briefly said his goodbyes to it, in case the devil decided to rip it to shreds. He’d whispered his prayers, stiff knees on the hard stone floor, begging for his soul to be saved. And then, he’d carefully brushed his hair and lain in bed, heart thumping in his chest. 

When he woke up to a hot, squirming weight in his lap, he slowly opened his eyes to a sea of red curls and two evil, unnaturally bright eyes staring down at him. 

He relaxed into the bedding. 

It was all right. There would be no use in fighting. There was nothing he could do.

The creature nuzzled his neck, a forked tongue flickering just below his ear.

“Leave me alone,” Aziraphale said, a hand reaching up to curl around the monster’s slender waist. Its scales were smooth, cold to the touch, and slippery wet. “I am a man of the Lord.”

“Ssso you sssay,” the demon’s tail sneaked underneath Aziraphale’s nightgown and easily found his erection. It wrapped around it and began to stroke. The man gasped, goosebumps raising on his skin as his toes curled.

“I can’t do this,” he insisted, pulling his own hand away and forcing it down against the mattress, over his head.

“You don’t have to do a thing, sssugar.” The creature tugged Aziraphale’s nightgown open on his chest, beginning to roll a hard nipple between index and middle finger. It arched its back, pressing down against his cock. “Jussst lie down and take it.”

Aziraphale hissed in pleasure, his hips jerking up of their accord, then he grabbed the demon at the wrist and pulled it down, crashing their mouths together. He was so much stronger than the monster, twiggy and lithe as it was. Could’ve easily tossed him off the bed.

His eyes rolled back and fixed on the wooden cross on the wall over his bed. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t, he couldn’t.

He pulled out the steel rosary from under his pillow and pressed the cross against the creature’s cheek. “I command you to stop immediately.”

The monster grinned, its blazing gold eyes shining in the darkness. Then, it tilted its head to the side and wrapped its tongue around the cross.

Aziraphale’s other hand grabbed a fistful of lush red hair and gripped it tightly. The monster chuckled, beast that it was, and took the longer arm of the cross - and Aziraphale’s fingers around it - in its mouth. It sucked and pressed its fangs lightly into the supple skin, and Aziraphale, rather than yanking it away, pulled its head closer, pressing its teeth harder against his hand, until it hurt.

He stared, transfixed, as the demon pulled back, licked and kissed the indents its fangs had made into his skin. Hadn’t it been a monster, Aziraphale would have thought him almost apologetic. Even though it was Aziraphale’s own fault.

Wasn’t everything?

He dropped the rosary and sank his fingers into the monster’s arse cheeks, holding it still while he ground his cock up against it through the thick material of his nightgown. The creature pressed back with a shivery exhale, seeking and finding more friction.

“Begone, fiend.” Aziraphale said as he dug his nails into the dark scales, cock so hard it hurt as it dribbled through the fabric, and then let it go.

The demon sneered, gaze full of mirth. It leisurely licked along the man’s bottom lip before drawing back. It made its way down his body, hiking the nightgown over the Aziraphale’s hips and uncovering his throbbing erection. It wetted his lips with a flicker of tongue and Aziraphale pressed the back of his fist hard against his own mouth - he knew what was coming, and he’d have to try his best to keep quiet.

When the monster sank onto his cock, its mouth unbearably hot and wet, making the most obscene noises as it moved, Aziraphale’s mind shut down completely. He forgot - forgot this was forbidden, forgot he should have been resisting, forgot he would have to repent for this shameful act. He forgot everything except the rising spikes of pleasure rippling underneath his skin and seized the demon by the horns on its head, keeping it still as he pushed up into that hungry heat. The creature moaned aloud and Aziraphale was willing to bet it was touching itself, the sinful thing.

He reached the edge of an earth-shattering orgasm too fast, pushed the creature away at the last possible moment. He wrapped a hand tight around his own cock, stopping himself from finishing. Not yet, not yet, it didn’t hurt enough yet.

“Take me, demon. Let’s get this over with.” The monster wiped its mouth with the back of a sharp-clawed hand, smirking as it breathed hard. It was panting - its lungs visibly working inside his thin chest. He— _it_ was a small, fragile thing. A shameless thing. Gorgeous and dangerous and intoxicating.

Aziraphale’s gaze travelled down to its twin cocks, glistening with precome in the moonlight. His mouth watered and he swallowed hard.

The demon was shockingly gentle as it took him by the hand, leading him up and over itself - as it turned around on its hands and knees and presented himself to the man, its tail twitching to the right, its arsehole slick and tight.

Aziraphale’s hands trembled as he raised himself on his knees, as he clutched the monster at its hips, as he drove into the narrow, clenching warmth of it. He reached around, unsure whether the demon’s cocks actually burned against his fingers or if it was all suggestion. He jerked them hard, feeling the bumpy underside of them and remembering with a shudder what they felt like inside of him. He moved his hand faster - he wouldn’t last long at all, but he would not lose it before the creature did. He still had a shred of dignity left.

When the monster came, it was with a sibilant cry that echoed in the room as it smeared the sheets underneath them with its semen. Its claws pierced the bedding all the way to the mattress, sending feathers flying all around them. Aziraphale hauled it back against his cock, the lewd sound of his hips slapping against the demon’s body only spurring him on into a brutal pace, until the pleasure became overwhelming and he let go, spilling inside the creature for a few, long moments.

He fell forward, cored out and exhausted, let the monster sneak out from underneath him and wrap its arms around him. 

Its little devil heart beat wildly inside its chest, and for a moment - Aziraphale almost thought of him— _it_ as human. But it wasn’t - it couldn’t be. It had to be a monster, an evil spirit who overpowered him, who forced him into this. Who’d take what it wanted from him, no matter how much he protested. A beast who took advantage of him almost every night.

A monster who wouldn’t judge him.

* * *

Morning broke and it was time to confess.

Aziraphale prepared his little speech as he stared at his bed - mattress perfectly intact, sheets clean and crisp, all fixed with a snap of the demon’s fingers.

He skipped breakfast and sat in the confessional. It was dark on the other side, and the wood was pleasantly cool under his thighs.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It happened again, I’m afraid. That monster - it came back. It took my virtue once more. An agent of Satan, without a doubt. It disrobed me and sullied me with its tongue and lips and its hands, and oh—it made me forget myself and lose the way yet another time.” He swallowed through an exceptionally dry throat, palming down his erection through his clothes.

He crossed himself with that same hand, feeling utterly filthy. Then dropped to his knees.

“May the Lord in His infinite mercy forgive me and save my soul. Amen.”

He stood up, walked outside of the confessional. The curtain was open on the other side, revealing nobody else had been in there with him.

After all, there had to be some perks to this job. Confessing and forgiving himself was one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if I'm going to write a part 2 but since several people asked in comments and DMS I might? If you'd like to get a notif if/when I do hit subscribe or lmk I should give you a heads up!


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes he struggles to keep up the pretence. He's a demon, he's supposed to be good at this - but the priest, oh, he's so much better than him at being wicked. In fact, all the filthiest ideas are Aziraphale’s.

Like the time he slicked the inside of his plump legs with oil while Crowley watched with bated breath, and then guided one of the demon’s cocks inside him and the other one between his thighs. Crowley hadn't been able to get very deep like that, and it'd been the sweetest torture. Tiny, fraught movements gradually bringing him to a powerful orgasm that never seemed to end - not to mention the look Aziraphale gave him once he stood up, semen dripping obscenely down his legs, smiling back at him from over his shoulder.

_(“Look what you did, monster. Will you get a commendation out of this?”)_

Or the time he suggested Crowley give himself a cunt, then spent the better part of the night eating him out, never sated, never tired. He had a dazed look about him as he made Crowley tremble through orgasm after orgasm, the demon’s pleasure almost an afterthought. And - help him Satan - Crowley hadn’t been able to rip his gaze away from the priest’s wet cheeks, his lips swollen from rubbing against flesh, his quick pink tongue dripping with the demon’s slick even as it kept accusing him.

_(“Wicked creature from Hell, crawling onto me to taint my soul.”)_

None of his superiors knows about this little secret, of course. What's a succubus that succumbs to temptation good for?

* * *

He didn't enjoy being what he was. Lust felt like such a basic urge, and he longed for more interesting assignments. Crash an entire country’s telephone network, paralyse an European megacity’s traffic. Things like that.

And then, one day, he saw the priest.

It was a Sunday morning; it was a warm spring day and the people attending mass were flocking in the tiny church all dressed in white.

It was a very innocent, quaint picture, and Crowley _ached_ to ruin it. He’d lingered outside the small building, grinning to himself when a teenager snuck out to smoke a cigarette. Not a sin, just to be clear - but a little seed of disobedience that could grow into something more. And when the kid had gone back inside, pushing the heavy door open, Crowley had caught a glimpse of the priest. He was standing in front of the altar, arms raised as he showed the congregation the body of Christ. White light filtered through the enormous windows behind him, making him shine.

He looked like an angel.

The demon couldn’t step foot inside, so he’d circled the church until he’d found a spot he could peek from and watch through stained glass windows. The priest was the colour of pale gold, gorgeous and soft, and Crowley was irresistibly drawn by the aura of powerful, conflicting feelings emanating from him. The most fertile ground for a temptation.

Which was a stroke of good luck, really, as this would be his very first experience as a succubus.

* * *

They're lying in bed together one night, after Aziraphale is done wrestling with his sense of guilt and he's finally finished telling Crowley he's a foul fiend, a vile monster - all the usual terms of endearments.

The demon is reluctant to leave. He should. But the priest’s body is so comfortable and warm, and Hell is cold, crowded, and always inexplicably damp.

“We could go off together,” he whispers, low enough that if Aziraphale is asleep it won't be heard, low enough that the priest can pretend he hasn't heard.

“Go off together?” The man's voice trembles. For a terrifying, wonderful moment, Crowley feels he's about to say yes. “Where to?”

He hasn’t really thought that far. Never let himself believe the priest would be interested. “I could figure it out.” 

Aziraphale is quiet for a long time. Then, he sighs. “There is no place for us. Go back in the pit you came from, devil.” He says, patting Crowley’s back as he settles more comfortably into the pillows, his other hand lost somewhere in the demon’s hair. “Let me sleep.”

Crowley nuzzles his neck and never asks again in the five years that follow.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t like Father Gabriel. It’s obvious in the way the smile on his face sits tight at the edges, in the way his gaze stays vigilant and alert whenever he’s around. Crowley thinks that’s smart, Father Gabriel doesn’t like him either. If Crowley peers inside the younger man’s thoughts he can see exactly what opinion he has of Aziraphale - too fat, too lax, not pure enough.

Even the way he looks at Aziraphale is full of contempt. Bloody idiot, wouldn’t know a good thing if it hit him right in his stupid face.

“Moisson?” Aziraphale glances between Gabriel and Crowley, confusion clear on his face. “Where is that?”

“France, obviously.” Gabriel replies, then puts a heavy hand on Crowley’s shoulder and the demon has to resist the urge to hiss. “Our Father Anthony here can’t go alone, because of his… condition.” The man says, in a way he probably thinks is delicate, as he gestures vaguely to Crowley’s black glasses and cane.

Crowley suppresses the very demonic urge to break it in half over that thick head of his. He clears his throat before turning to speak to Aziraphale.

“Small town, charming. Close to where Monet - the painter - used to live. There is a little church right on the outskirts in dire need of renovation and… manning.” He lifts an eyebrow over his glasses, hopes his meaning is clear. “Sparse congregation. Mostly, we’d have each other as our only company. What do you say, Father?”

Aziraphale blinks very slowly, looks carefully at Gabriel and Crowley perceives his fear - fear something he’s just found out he wants will be taken away from him before he even gets it. But Gabriel is just smiling brightly down at him, all too happy to be sending Aziraphale far away, in the middle of nowhere.

“I-I say, if that is what is asked of me, it is my duty to obey, of course.” Aziraphale answers. He reaches out, takes Crowley’s hand in his, gives it a firm squeeze while his eyes shine. When he speaks again, his voice shakes. “If you don’t mind, Father Gabriel, I’d like to take a walk with Father Anthony in the gardens, get to know each other a little.”

Gabriel shrugs. ”You’ll have plenty of time for that, but sure, whatever.”

* * *

There is a peaceful village in Normandy, France. It lies by a river, overlooked by a small castle. Less than a thousand people live there.

There is a small church out of the way, everyone knows it was supposed to be renovated at one point, but the only part that has seen any care is the tiny house right next to it. Still, the priest that lives in that house insists on holding mass every week.

No one quite remembers how old the priest and his companion are. It feels as if they’ve been there forever and never get any older at all. The most sensitive among the villagers insist the area around the church is brimming with magic. Nobody believes them - it gets very boring in these small towns, it’s well known that people make up stories to keep themselves entertained.

It is also said that minor inconveniences happen all the time in this small city. Voices say that no matter where you choose to sleep, if the room has a window, the blinds will always have a tiny gap that will let the sun hit you precisely in the eyes and wake you up as soon as morning comes. It’s also known that all taps drip steadily, and that no two clocks ever read quite the same time.

It’s almost as if some evil spirit had a quota to fill.

On Sundays, after mass and if the weather is good, the priest will lay a blanket on the grass and have lunch with his friend, along with an excessive amount of wine. 

No one quite knows what they talk and laugh about all the time. But, after they’ve been whispering intently for a while, their faces so close to one another their noses almost bump, sometimes the wind seems to move the trees and bushes around them just right, and then nobody is able to see them, or hear them at all, for a long, long time.

Some could swear that, at night, a creature with huge bat-like wings and twisted horns on its head circles the sky over the priest’s house. When it lands, it howls and starts clawing at the door, and the man always lets it in with a smile.

But, of course, that’s just small town gossip.


End file.
